Like Them
by Lunalelle
Summary: Harry pointed his wand down at the Dark Lord... The fall of Voldemort with a twist.
1. Part I

**Title:** Like Them

**Rating:** R

**Warning:** violence, suggestion of sex and abuse

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Pairing:** Hermione/Voldemort

**Summary:** _Harry pointed his wand down at the Dark Lord._ The fall of Voldemort with a twist.

**Notes:** I started this a long time ago, but I waited to post it for when it was finished. I hope you enjoy it. This is what I wish Rowling would do. I would just like to add that this was meant to be a novella rather than novel-length. So this won't be as intricate as Abyss/Ascent by any means.

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Harry pointed his wand down at the Dark Lord.

Lord Voldemort was on his knees, something in his leg broken from the fall after their duel. His wand was broken into five pieces to the side. The close circumference of the fighting field around them had ceased fire and watched the situation with wide eyes. The Death Eaters, those who were still conscious or alive, froze in fear at their master's clear defeat.

The battle began the previous night under a clear, starry sky that soon dimmed with all the flashes of spells, the night creatures drowned out by screams, crying, punctuated by the silence of those struck silent. It was supposed to be a victory for Voldemort – even Dumbledore had feared this outcome. The Death Eaters were supposed to outnumber them after the five initiations that Voldemort had held since the public knowledge of his return. The _Daily Prophet_ and other newspapers mirrored the total despair of the entire wizarding world as Voldemort's power and influence seemed only to grow. Trust was once again a precious commodity – each day oscillated from the knowledge that the day should be appreciated and the fear that it was the last day. Harry felt Voldemort's delight every day, even after his many successful Occlumency lessons that should have blocked him from the emotions – but the Dark Lord was delighted, and that worried the Order and the DA. Hogwarts still continued, although the students were jumpy, quiet – studying was one of the escapes, but even Hermione could not take pleasure in the sudden influx of responsibility when she knew it was only a matter of time.

Dumbledore himself helped the DA prepare. Everyone who saw him train the children knew that it broke his heart to teach students who had not even learned how to Apparate – people who had not even begun to live – how to kill, how to die. He watched the future of the wizarding world turn into instruments of war. Many of the other professors helped – Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall, the former Professor Lupin, the former Professor Moody, and the present DADA teacher, although she was not the most knowledgeable woman.

The Great Hall had been quiet when Dumbledore announced that the next battle – the last battle, everyone knew he meant the last battle – would require everyone's participation. The final confrontation, time for the wizarding world to take a stand against Voldemort. Law Enforcement Officers, Aurors, Unspeakables, other witches and wizards who wanted or needed to fight, now the students of Hogwarts, would face the Dark Lord – only to fail, Dumbledore thought.

But more witches and wizards, more children, came to that field, covering the one side of the hill like a swarm, afraid, but bolstered by their numbers. Many Death Eaters and other followers of Voldemort, but not as many as had been expected, came at them from the other side of the hill. While the number of experienced fighters were outnumbered by Voldemort's supporters, most natural fighters, Dumbledore's army was larger, ten to one. Voldemort's side put up a good fight, deep into the night and into the sunrise, but they simply could not match Dumbledore's side.

The rising sun bled over the fallen, who bled into the ground.

Voldemort looked up, crimson eyes filled with fear, anger, hate, and what dignity he had left. He wished he had a knife, a shard of glass, anything, just not to be half-kneeling at Potter's feet utterly defenseless and at the boy's mercy – what little mercy he might have for a man like him. He was going to die. Even if one of the immortality spells worked, Potter would be on his guard and hit him with a spell that would ultimately debilitate him, destroy him. The sun rose behind the boy, casting him into half-silhouette, like some born god, and Voldemort hated it.

"Look at you," Harry snarled. "You're pathetic. I should torture you for every single person you took away from me and for every single person you took away from everyone else. Then I should kill you five hundred times, just to make sure you stay dead. You'd know that there are worse things than death by the five hundredth time you refused to die."

Voldemort tried to stand, but hissed at the pain in his right leg. He could not move it, and he almost fell sideways, like a lame animal. No more weakness, damn it.

"You did this to yourself, all the little ways you've destroyed your body," Harry continued. "Trying to be something you shouldn't be. I've seen Tom Riddle, and as evil as you were at sixteen, you're a shadow of yourself now. You aren't yourself. Ambition is all well and good until you become _this_." Harry spat in Voldemort's face. "Not even a man. It's disgusting. If you hadn't tried to kill me, I would have never been a threat to you, you know that? You might have achieved all the power you wanted. Instead, you were afraid of a child."

Voldemort was not listening. He tucked his left foot under his body, braced his hands on the ground. He was not going to go down at Potter's feet. He would not. One more time… Keep talking, Potter.

"You obsessed about killing me for more than seventeen years. What does that say about you?" Voldemort's fingers curled into the ground, ripping at grass. "Me. Without you, I'd be nothing special. I'd just be an ordinary wizard. Instead, you gave me the scar, and suddenly I'm the great hero I never wanted to be. Now I have to do this. I'm seventeen years old and I had to think about murder. Words can't describe how much I want to kill you for what you've done to me. What you've done to all of us. Neville _killed_ your precious _Bella_ – Neville, who a few years ago didn't even like killing spiders. You've… you've destroyed everything. This field – it used to be green. Now look at it."

"The earth thrives on the pain of its inhabitants," Voldemort hissed. "The blood and bodies feed it – it will be all the greener after this. Life from death, Harry. Even if you kill me, I'll always be there in your mind, screaming – you will become a killer, and no amount of justice will change the fact you took a life, just like any one of us, just like me. I'll have made you what you are, just like you never wanted to be. Even if I'm dead, you'll never be rid of me."

"Shut up!" Harry screamed, thrusting his wand forward.

Voldemort could not help but smile – it was forced, but effective. Voldemort always knew where to strike, what chord would resonate deep within Potter's mind, drive him to do something… hopefully something stupid, something that would let him get Potter's wand…

"If I marked you as the hero, gave you power you did not have before, I have only cultivated you. I have invaded so much of your mind – what is you, and what is me? What part of you is unchanged by my influence? When will you become me, Harry? When will Hero Harry Potter become the next Dark Lord, maybe even greater than myself?"

Harry gave a strangled cry, and Voldemort saw his chance. Pushing up with his left foot and his hands, he leapt at Harry, colliding with his chest. Voldemort's sight blackened as Harry kicked up against Voldemort's broken leg, but he clutched at Potter's arm, scrambling to grab his wand – if he was going to die, he was taking the Boy Who Lived with him. The boy would die at his hand, no matter what.

Potter squirmed, hit, even bit at Voldemort's shoulder, drawing blood, but Voldemort did not feel it, so focused was he on the wand, the wand with the same core as his.

"_Crucio!_" Harry shouted, meaning it with every inch of his being, and Voldemort flew back, screaming. Had he been expecting it, he would have braced himself for the curse, but it flared through his blood until all of him was screaming, writhing like a pit of vipers. Interspersed with his screams were cries of serpent pain in the tongue only he and Harry shared.

It could have gone on forever – the power of the curse had not waned – but Harry dropped his wand arm, leaving Voldemort silent and shaking with muscle tremors. He stood there, looking at Voldemort's trembling form.

"You see, Harry," Voldemort whispered. "Like me. You know what the trouble is with Gryffindors like you, _heroes_ like you? You always want a fair fight, but at one point, that fight, in order for it to be won, cannot match your ideology. Here I am, at your feet, the conquered evil enemy, subjected to the curse I used to torture you. How typical. I think… if I had the chance, even half-dead at my feet, I would kill you. What is stopping _you_, Harry? Afraid of me… yourself?"

"_Crucio!_"

But it was not the same. He did not mean it so much – the curse was borne of anguish, not of hatred. It hit Voldemort, then pulled back.

"Harry!"

Both of them turned in the direction of the voice, feminine, young. Voldemort could not see her very well – just a haze of brown mane, small features.

"No more," the voice said.

The voice sounded familiar, even for him, although she had to be a student at Hogwarts. Perhaps an echo from one of Harry's thoughts, one of the many facets of his mind Voldemort had invaded. A friend? A lover? He could not remember.

"Let him, he deserves it," said another voice, this one male, more familiar. Perhaps one of the Weasley boys. Voldemort hissed a curse that only a snake would understand. Harry heard it.

"No," the female voice said. "Remember the spell, Harry?"

What spell would work better than the Killing Curse? What spell, what spell? His mind flashed, one spell after another, all the spells he had researched, used, created… He could think of nothing that Harry would use, none that would destroy him yet leave him alive… not like the girl insisted upon.

"Ron!" the female voice shouted. The thundering footsteps that he heard in the ground stopped. "It's Harry's duty. We've talked about it." She sounded breathless. Voldemort struggled to see her. Who was she? He turned back to Potter, invaded his mind, plundered and took control. He saw himself on the ground and turned away in disgust. Harry's eyes darted to the girl, and he saw one glimpse of her that he stored away, like a photograph, before Harry pushed him from his mind.

"I could kill you," Harry said. "You know that, don't you? I want to. I don't want to kill, but I want to kill you. You know that?"

"You're too scared to kill me, Harry," Voldemort said quietly, crimson eyes looking in Harry's green eyes. "I know _that_. Why won't you kill me?"

"Do it, Harry," the female voice said. _Hermione_, Voldemort's memory whispered, and the picture of her that he had taken flared up in his mind.

Harry stared down at Voldemort, the former Dark Lord. "Killing you would be too good for you," he murmured. "We thought of a better solution." And he began to speak, not in English, but in Parseltongue, snake spells that Voldemort did not understand, but his instinct, the snake that had half-transfigured him, knew it all too well. He felt it twist, writhe, curl like a worm. Voldemort's body went stiff as the magic pouring from Harry's lips slithered into him, like calling to like. Voldemort knew serpent magic – he had used it so often, but this was different – this was not transfiguration, sacrifice, or persuasion, this was…

Voldemort screamed. His eyes snapped open, wide, staring at the glowing sky, the rays of the sun shining on the edge of his eyelids, but he did not notice. He felt the serpent, like an entity inside him, now in pain, lacerated. Being ripped apart, and the wriggling magic at its core being ripped… not apart, but away. Parseltongue sang in his ears, echoed, increased to a pitch unbearable to his head.

Then something new – the Parseltongue ceased, and Potter fell to the ground onto his knees. Voldemort turned his head to him. Harry looked back, face grimy and sweating. He was trembling. His wand was still in his hand, and he was trying to raise it. Voldemort could see that it was more than fatigue that kept him from doing so.

"What have…?" Voldemort breathed, pain hitching the question. "What have you done to me?"

"I'm not finished," Harry gasped. "I'm not finished yet. I need to keep going."

Harry's head snapped back, and his eyes flared with a sort of radioactive energy. He rose his wand, although his hand trembled, and he began the next half of the spell in his own human speech, and Voldemort screamed again, this time every single cell of his body shrieking in pain that was worse than the Cruciatus Curse, worse than when his _Avada Kedavra_ turned back toward him, because the Killing Curse had not killed him, but as Harry completed the incantation and fell back, dropping his wand in horror, something died within Voldemort's body. He could not even scream anymore. It died, became alien, left him with a gaping hole inside of him, an integral part of him missing. Voldemort did not know what it was, but tears leaked from his eyes as he curled in a fetal position, wishing for the first time that he was dead, that Harry had killed him because he could not breathe, could not think without that part of himself.

There was a ringing in his ears, the sound of cheering all around the hill of battle, hoarse cries of victory, pockets of silence, of the defeated. He, Lord Voldemort, had lost. He was curled like an infant before Harry Potter, who had stood, gathering the pieces of Voldemort's wand in his hand and holding it out for all to see.

He said in a clear voice that wavered only a little, "I didn't want to be a killer. Even if I… I did not want to become a killer just because of you, even if that's what everyone wanted. I knew better. A fate worse than death, Voldemort. We worked on it for so long. You're not even frightening now."

There was a murmur of laughter, jeering. No one came too close because they remembered what he was capable of, all that he had done. Voldemort knew he was not frightening, not like this, like some coward. He stirred, stretching out his limbs. Something felt wrong, but despite his shaking, Voldemort made the attempt to get to his feet, maybe try to grab the boy's wand again, anything to stop this empty feeling. He stumbled, which caused the crowd to titter, but he finally stood straight, glaring down at Harry, who had an odd half-smile on his face, an odd look to his face – paler, thinner, more elegant, even the shifting of his feet graceful.

There was a collective gasp among the closest who could see him. The very movement of his body, the blink of an eye, the beating of his heart, the expansion of his lungs, it all felt so wrong.

"I did not want to kill you," Harry said, a slight hiss behind his words. "But I won't give you a chance to rise again back to your old power. I won't live forever, and now, neither will you. But your life is going to be a living hell. Look at yourself. Really. Look at yourself, Voldemort. You're nothing."

Voldemort fell to his knees, his legs unable to support him, and as he braced himself with his arms on the ground, he saw his hands, and his emptiness was forgotten as his entire world froze and shattered. Thin, pale, but… human. The hand of a forty-year-old wizard.

Voldemort jerked his head up at the form of Potter – the _changed_ form of Potter – and said, "What have you done… to me?" Even his voice…

"You're never going to be who you were again. You're going to live the rest of your life like this."

Voldemort looked into Harry's eyes, even with the sun a bright globe behind him. "_Legilimens_," he muttered.

Nothing, not even a failed surge of magic.

He tried again. "_Legilimens_," he said, struggling to flex that special muscle that allowed him to do magic even without a wand.

"Potter…" His voice…

Harry winced, his eyes glittering with pity, regret. "Like a Muggle, Voldemort. You have no more magic. You're a Muggle. You're what you always hated. It was all I could think of."

"What?" Voldemort whispered.

"I stripped you of your magic, your transfigurations, and your survival spells. You're a Muggle, Voldemort."


	2. Part II

Dumbledore, some children, others gathered around Harry while Voldemort fell sideways again, his broken leg splintering from his weight, the pain even worse with his magical protection gone. That empty feeling only grew as he realized that the magic that had been with him for all of his life – had hummed through him since he was a child, had been the reason his father left his mother, the magic that his life depended on – had been taken. Removed from his body. Stripped away.

He was a Muggle.

No one paid him any attention there on the ground. He could not hurt them anymore – why should they bother? His eyes clenched shut against the lightning in his leg.

A wand was tracing his thigh where the fracture burned. Voldemort gasped as a girl murmured a spell that numbed the pain before she held a vial to his lips. Voldemort did not care if it would kill him or cure him, and he hoped the potion would do the first, but the break mended itself in a strange weaving of bone.

Voldemort did not let the opportunity slip him by. He may have lost his magic, but he was not powerless, and his memory was intact. As quickly as he could in his condition, he curled an arm around the girl's neck and flung her over him. Getting to his feet, he clenched a hand around the girl's throat, relishing the gasps and choking sounds, the struggle of so many of his victims before her. He had not lost his touch. He gripped her thin neck tighter as he thought of what he _had_. Damn Potter to the lowest level of hell, this was the girl who had told him to say the spell instead of kill him. He would make both of them pay – he could taste the boy's anguish when he saw his best friend _Hermione_ dead, a casualty even after his victory.

He heard someone coming behind him, preparing to fling a spell, but Voldemort whipped around with Hermione in his hands, struggling, losing her footing, losing her vision and the feeling in her arms and legs, gasping for air.

"I'll snap her neck," Voldemort said. His voice was achingly human, but he managed to add enough menace to give the approaching attacker pause. Voldemort vaguely recognized him, a black man, an Auror. "I swear I'll snap her neck."

"Tom," said Dumbledore softly behind him, "it's time to give up. You've lost. Let Hermione go. You won't kill her."

"Really?" Voldemort replied. He placed his free hand on her shoulder and moved the other up to her chin. One more second, and he could have jerked her chin up, killing her in a single, vengeful motion. But he could not block himself from all sides, and he was struck with a simple _Stupefy_, long enough to take Hermione from him. Dumbledore cast _Enervate_ as soon as Hermione was pulled away and held by Harry and Ron Weasley as she swallowed the air she had been denied. He looked bitterly into her eyes, unable to look into her mind, but he did not see hatred. He was glad he did not see pity either. Instead, just resignation.

Voldemort did not fight as the black Auror bound his hands behind his back. He knew that the Auror was not following procedure, but why should he? The Dark Lord was a Dark Lord no longer, just a _Muggle_ who was no match for the power of the wands around him, for the magic that crackled around him instead of within him.

"You know, Harry," Voldemort murmured, "I was wrong. You haven't become me – you're worse."

Harry could not meet his eyes, but it was Hermione's reaction that caught his eyes. She burst into tears, a culmination of fear, stress, fatigue, and… something else… perhaps what he had said. Voldemort did not recognize the spell that Harry had used on him – it was more than likely that Harry, with his average schooling, had discovered the incantations on his own, but from what he remembered of Hermione from a distance, she had the mental means… His lip curled.

"You could not even leave me with dignity," Voldemort continued as he was given into another's hands. He pointed his words at Hermione, knowing that she was listening because she tried to hide and close her ears from him. "I filled grown men with fear with my name. I worked all of my life to become what I was – I cheated death for it, for power that you could not imagine, that you felt fit to take. You've brought one Dark Lord to heel. When will the next rise, Harry?" He spat down at the ground.

"Your words don't mean anything anymore, Tom," Harry said, holding Hermione closer. "You brought it all on yourself. Remember that when they don't kill you for your sentence. I don't regret what I did, not anymore. None of us should." Harry gave Hermione's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

As Voldemort was being led away, he looked upon the Boy Who Lived Again and said softly, without malice, "So you've won, Harry. Are you happy now?"

Harry's head dropped down. "I could have been," he whispered. "I chose not to be."

And on those enigmatic words, Voldemort was taken from the field of battle, walking quietly with two Aurors. He would not beg, and he would not resist like a fish caught in a hook. He would find some way to get his magic back. He had not fought tooth and nail to become the most powerful, nearly immortal wizard only to fall at the feet of a seventeen-year-old boy. There would always be some way… some way… he would not… there would be a way…

His stomach tightened at the despairing thought – no, knowledge – that there _was_ no way, and that was the cold, hard truth. He would be half a man forever, the very thing he despised, the very thing he sought to destroy, and he was now in the hands of the system he had nearly overthrown.

"Azkaban would be too good for you," muttered the other Auror, an unfamiliar one.

Voldemort agreed.

Their punishment was fitting, Voldemort thought to himself after it was finished, the hollow feeling inside of him extending like gangrene to his head. He drifted through his mind like some ghost, only dimly aware of what was happening to him. Yes, the punishment was fitting and quick.

There would be a time for mourning. Now, the citizens of the wizarding world who had hid and shivered in abject terror under his ascent to power and brief reign wanted their revenge. They would cry for the lost later. They would spit upon him now.

He was not brought before the Ministry. Why bother? They could throw him into Azkaban, but he could not see the dementors, even if he could feel them. And they did not want him in Azkaban, they wanted him where they could see him, where they could mock him.

Someone had prepared for his degradation in anticipation, or blind hope, that he would be brought to his knees, and the Aurors dragged him into Diagon Alley, which was filled to the brink with citizens of the British wizarding world. Their noises were nothing more than that, senseless words that did not quite reach his eyes. He saw their confusion, then recognition as the Aurors led him through the Alley to the plaza in front of Gringotts, the only open space within the cluttered street. There was a dais in the center of the plaza, and Voldemort felt heat creep up his neck and over his face.

"Yes, _my lord_," one of the Aurors said, sneering. "It's only right that a _lord_ should have his coronation."

Voldemort lowered his eyes, gritting his teeth. He tried to drift again, but the gleaming wood of the pillory remained stark in his vision. He was shoved onto the dais, and with a slashing motion of his wand, the Auror divested him of his robes, leaving him naked and pale – but not white – before the crowd. He winced at the coolness of the air and the eyes on his skin. Even he could appreciate the irony. It would have been more ironic had they presented him to a guillotine, but that would make his torture far too quick and painless. Instead, abject humiliation in the plaza of Diagon Alley before all the people who he had tried to destroy… fitting, to say the least.

The Auror shoved him to his knees before the pillory, forced his arms and head through the indentions, shackling him there and bringing the top down over him. They would not even torture him with magic. Silence swept over the Alley as the Auror held up his hand.

"Here is the Dark Lord Voldemort," he began, and the crowd began murmuring, jeering in whispers, "brought low by the efforts of Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, and Minerva McGonagall. Once the pride of the pureblood traitors, he is now nothing more than a man. How many of you have suffered under his orders? How many have lost children, spouses, friends, relatives? How many have cowered in fear and distrust because of him?"

"How many, indeed, have left the war to a handful of students and teachers instead of winning it themselves?" Voldemort said, his voice effortlessly carrying over the crowd. Eyes turned hostile as a nerve was struck, and the Auror kicked him in the ribs.

"See your opportunity for revenge," the Auror continued.

"Like cowards, all waiting for me to be unable to fight back," Voldemort said. He groaned as the Auror kicked him again.

"Shut up," he spat, knocking Voldemort's head against the wood. "These people deserve to give every blow to you that they can."

He looked back out at the crowd. "There is to be no killing, and restrain your magic. We want him alive, and we don't want anyone else harmed because of your anger. Is that understood?"

"Commanding a crowd is like reasoning with fanged infants," Voldemort murmured. "I will die today."

"That would be too good for you," the Auror said. "We're prepared."

"So said the aristocrats during the French Revolution," Voldemort replied.

The Auror ignored him and turned to the fidgeting crowd. They were toying with wands, creating fruit and vegetables from bits and pieces of trash about them, holding handfuls of Knuts, running spells through their heads and itching for a piece of the fallen Dark Lord.

"You have five hours," the Auror said. "Make them last. And don't you go unconscious until they've had their fill."

"Wouldn't want to deprive them of the satisfaction of their violent revenge," Voldemort said. He jerked his head back as the Auror spat upon him, marking the beginning of his humiliation.

Voldemort had been right. A few dangerous curses came through, and although the Aurors removed the casters from the crowd, they still had their hands full. It was only in a matter of an hour that Voldemort was covered in juices, trash, semen, spit, and blood. The initial pain settled into steady throb after a while – pain without comparison ceases to be pain. He slumped in the pillory long before he lost consciousness two hours into the torture. The Aurors Enervated him when they saw his mouth slacken so that he would suffer every bit of fun that the crowd had at his expense, every inch of pain that he had inflicted upon the wizarding community.

He found that after three hours, he stopped caring. He could drift again. The Auror whispering obscenities in his ear, telling him of his defeat and what was going to happen to his Death Eaters now, what was going to happen to him, meant nothing. He could not care less about the nails raking between his arse or the blood dripping down his thighs. It was not there. The crowd became nothing more than static, grimacing creatures that did not speak his language.

He fell into a stupor of serpents – it seemed that Harry had not stripped him of his Parseltongue, it was whirling through his head in a symphony of sibilant hisses. Within the confines of his mind, it occurred to him that because he still carried that beloved trait, it meant that the ability he prized so highly was not magically linked. Underneath the grime and wetness, his face went white. The Parseltongue that ran through Salazar Slytherin's veins was not unique to wizards. Heaving, Voldemort emptied the meager contents of his stomach. It was thrown back in his face, and Voldemort drifted again.

At noon, the Auror next to him reluctantly put up a shield around Voldemort, and the Aurors and Law Enforcement Officers began to clear the Alley. It took longer than three hours – the people wanted blood. They wanted to see him writhing under Cruciatus, they wanted to see his body limp under the Killing Curse, just as the Dark Lord had always done to them, just as they were always afraid to see when they came home.

Voldemort's eyes were open, but it was clear he was not there. The remaining Aurors kicked him, but he did nothing but blink.

"Look at you now," one of the Aurors muttered in something that resembled admiration. "You're not even a shadow of what you were. Are _you_ what we were afraid of?"

"I had to be stripped of my magic before any of you could even touch me," Voldemort whispered beyond the refuse coating his throat. "It is nothing for you to be proud of. This _holiday_ was a transformation: my Death Eaters and me into them, and they into us. Nothing to be proud of."

"You can hardly talk to us about morals, Voldemort," another Auror said, undoing the shackles, opening the pillory, and Levitating Voldemort's disgusting body from them. No one wanted to touch him, and they said his name freely, as though they had never feared it. "But you understand revenge, don't you?"

And the Aurors had their way with him until he was a mass of bruises, a smear of crimson, struck by every curse in their extensive repertoire. Unlike his humiliation before the crowd, Voldemort screamed, and despite all his attempts, he could not drift.

"_What is going on here?_" bellowed a voice full of power, authority, and outrage. Voldemort recognized it instantly through the haze. He never thought that he would be relieved to hear Albus Dumbledore's voice.

"A few hours, I said," Dumbledore continued, toning down his volume, but not his fury. "To placate the community, to siphon their frustration and their liberation, but this… _look_ at him. He can't lift a finger against you. He's vulnerable as a child, and you…" Dumbledore's voice caught. "Away. Get away. We'll handle him from here."

"We were given strict instructions," one of the Aurors said, but his hesitation betrayed his guilt.

"And I am countermanding them," Dumbledore said. "The Minister will always err in the side of extremism. We are responsible for his defeat. We will take care of him."

Voldemort heard the boots of Aurors walking away, mingling with the whisper of magic around him, reversing most of the curses and hexes and some of the physical damage, banishing the second skin of filth. He winced as he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. Another and another held his waist, and he winced as yet another curled around his neck. The hands helped him to his feet. He saw Order members, one the black Auror from the battlefield, others not quite so familiar, all adults. He accepted the small victory that the students, _Harry_, Ron, _Hermione_, were not there to witness his weakness.

Dumbledore came in front of him, offering him an open palm. Voldemort gathered what moisture he had left and spat. Dumbledore sighed.

"It was not meant to be that way," he said. "I did not expect…"

"Fool," Voldemort hissed. Several of the hands on his naked body tightened. "You're a fool if you believed that they would listen, that they would be satisfied with anything less. And you are a fool if you think I'll willingly accept any help from you."

"You brought it upon yourself, Tom, I told you that," Dumbledore replied.

"No," Voldemort said. "You could have killed me. But that was not enough for you any more than it was enough for me. We were two sides of the same coin, even if you never wanted to admit it. You had to change me into this… this helpless creature, and that can never be forgiven. Perhaps, in time, when people become weary of taking revenge on me, they will turn to you and realize what a monster you really are."

"It was not my idea, Tom," Dumbledore said gently. "It was Harry's, and his friends'. Not me."

"Voldemort," Voldemort said. "I'll never be Tom again, no matter how hard you wish."

"You have always been Tom to me," Dumbledore murmured, stepping away, nodding at the Order.

They did not have to take him far. There was new structure built against the front wall of Gringotts. Bars lined the wall facing the plaza, but behind the bars was a thick purple curtain. The Order members led him into Gringotts, and one of the goblins took out a key and opened a door into the structure.

"I'll take it that security will improve beyond a key," Dumbledore said.

"Of course," the goblin replied. He did not bow or respond deferentially. The insinuation was that he would… because the price was high enough. "They are working on the new door as we speak. It should be in place by tomorrow morning. The jurisdiction shall be yours to enter and to anyone whom you specifically allow."

"Very good," Dumbledore said before walking into the structure with Voldemort and the Order members.

"This will be your new home," Dumbledore said. "It is completely furnished, under top security, and there are highly advanced wards placed beyond the bars. In the morning, the curtains shall open, and in the evening, they will close."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, Tom, you will be on display. There are certain things that I _cannot_ stop the Ministry from doing, and this is one of them. I _can_, however, make the arrangements in order to keep things as humane as possible when the Ministry forgets."

Dumbledore beckoned for the Order members to loose him. He bent forward where Voldemort fell to the ground.

"Although you may never forgive me, Tom," Dumbledore whispered. "Know that I forgive you and that I am truly sorry about this."

Voldemort hissed, Parseltongue sliding from his tongue in a series of curses. Dumbledore jerked back, surprised, but then his eyes crinkled in a slight smile.

"So you have one thing left," he muttered. "I'm glad. Goodbye, Tom, and good luck."

And Dumbledore followed his Order members out the door that shut behind them, leaving Voldemort to his luxurious prison.


	3. Part III

Eyes. Nothing but eyes and open months and pointing fingers. That was what Dumbledore has reduced him to. A circus side show, the village freak. Attend, attend, this be the once fearsome Dark Lord, now a Muggle! Two Sickles to see!

Actually, they did not have to pay a single bronze Knut. At sunrise, the curtain opened on its own, baring him to the early morning Alley shoppers and employees. They had not exorcised their fury before; they brought fruit and spells to throw at him, but the wards pushed off all but the dust of the residue. Occasionally a nut would make it through and well-executed expectoration, but that was about it. Unlike before, they brought their children, who traced the letters on the display sign. _Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort the Dark Lord (once You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) – vanquished by Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, the Ministry of Magic, and the Order of the Phoenix. _To add insult to injury, the display sign had an illustration of his former self that was, to say the least, inaccurate.

There was a mirror in his small lavatory that was away from the prying eyes of the visitors. He saw himself as a man for the first time after Dumbledore left him alone in the prison. Even as a man, he was striking, as he had been as a boy. He shared some features with his old form – he was thin, his complexion was pale, his bones and muscles pronounced under his skin, and his facial structure resembled that of his other appearance. But he was most definitely human. There were clothes – wizarding robes – in the wardrobe that fit, and he put them on before sleeping. The opening of the drapes roused him.

When his gazing visitors looked at him, they did not flinch. Some of them compared the illustration to the man in the prison and laughed. He stayed in the lavatory at the beginning. Then he began to feel angry at himself for hiding. He could not control the worm of vulnerability writhing within his ordinary human body. Sometimes he caught himself reaching for his wand only to remember that it was broken and would not work even if he held it whole in his hand now. He took minimal compensation from the eggs in the ice box. He remembered how to cook them, and breaking their fragile shells made him at least simulate the destruction of a living creature. He hoped a cockroach would invade his prison. A rat would be even better.

He could not escape them, though, the eyes. There was something intense behind the glassiness, something that seemed almost like a shielded intelligence that even animals possessed. Those that stared at him were wicked, derisive, malicious, malevolent, vengeful… cowards. All of them. Knowing their cowardice made staring back easier. He frightened a boy by hissing at him – it was a simple serpent lullaby in Parseltongue, but the boy cried as though Voldemort had called down hellfire upon him. The mother, who should never have brought her child to ogle at him like a Muggle before the television, glared at him disapprovingly. Voldemort laughed as the mother led the little boy away.

However, even Voldemort had his limits, and he turned to the lavatory to avoid the eyes, even for a few minutes, but it would not open. He pulled at the knob, twisted it as far as it would go. It was not jammed, it simply would not move. There was nowhere else that the eyes could not reach him. Even his bed was in full view. Although he had hoped to become a public figure, he was an intensely private person. His chest began to constrict as he realized that this was going to be his life. These eyes.

He paced. He foresaw decades of pacing before he was some decrepit Muggle man whose weak body failed all around him, painful, like all Muggle deaths. The wizarding world had enough medicinal potions and charms that preserved healthy life even in the oldest of wizards. Most died peacefully. But Muggles' lives were short and awful, and he could feel his body dying even as he walked back and forth on the lush carpet. He was barefoot – his boots had been taken, and there were none in the wardrobe.

Time was immaterial, slipping through his mind in a tangle knot of spider's web. He could not concentrate the way he used to. There was no library, no study, not even a desk with parchment and quill and ink. He sat at the end of his bed with his knees bent and his arms resting on his thighs. He looked out into Diagon Alley, past the visitors, and into the crowd that was not concerned with him. He was passing entertainment; already, the captivation he once held over the British wizarding community waned, as though he was being forgotten or suppressed in the back of minds that abhorred pain, as though he was simply a shadow of the name that they once could not speak for fear.

The bars distanced him. The emptiness, the hollow that his magic used to inhabit, consumed him. He was nothing but a slowly shattering mind, thanks to the cruelty of Potter and that girl and... Those tears in her eyes, sparkling in his vivid memory like crystals, revealed her guilt. Voldemort latched into the hurt he saw in the memory-Hermione's eyes. Perhaps in her guilt, she would do something rash in his favor. He indulged in the dream for a few moments before casting it away with a self-deprecating laugh. A single day in this domestic prison with those fucking eyes always boring holes in his skin and he became a gothic villain, the kind that women tried to redeem.

He would not be redeemed. He would not give Dumbledore that satisfaction. He could see the celebration now – Dumbledore would be ecstatic, and the bloody fool would cover Hogwarts in crepe and call a feast, and everyone would cheer as Dumbledore brought him forward. They would drink to his "recovery." His ears would be filled with saccharine shit about how he had given them a nasty shock, but finally he had seen the light and his potential in conservative society could finally be reached.

He ended the sugary vision by somehow poisoning the entire assembly. He still had that capability, at least, although if he left Diagon Alley, the apothecary would be unreachable. Voldemort curled his lips into a snarl. He swore that if he saw the insane fool of an old man, the Boy-Who-Lived, or Hermione, if they tried to touch him, he would kill them. There was still power in his hands, and he was not above using brute strength if it was all he had left. It was one of the few advantages of this awful body – it was physically much stronger. His endurance, however, was shot, and he was tired even after pacing and thinking so hard to think of something. In his serpentine form, he could live without sleep for days and never feel the exhaustion to which his Death Eaters yielded.

His second night in prison, he fell asleep with his head against the foot of the bed.

The wizarding world toasted each other to a war well won the day before. The Muggle world felt the residue of magical unrestraint and the news was peppered with oddities initiated by lackadaisical wizards and witches who did not care who saw them. The Muggle world had just as much reason to celebrate, and those who straddled both worlds brought the celebration to their relatives and friends, even if they did not quite understand the threat that Lord Voldemort posed to them that had been destroyed.

In the aftermath of the parties and drunken orgies, formidable witches and wizards that had been preoccupied the day before came back in full force, like the crowd that had tortured him, except instead of sneers, there was laughter and smiles. Groups directed half-intelligent jokes in Voldemort's direction. Tipsy spells flew at the wards, some mild enough that he was hit full-force. One witch spelled him with the Tickling Charm, and Voldemort was brought to tears in laughter until a goblin guard pushed the wand and the witch away from the viewing area. The witch insisted that he just needed to get into the mood of things.

Voldemort encountered his first rehabilitation offer – "Surely now that you no longer have magic and no longer pose a threat to our world you would like to join it in the few ways that you can become a constructive member of society." Voldemort resisted the puerile temptation to throw an egg or an apple at the man. Instead, he ignored him, and the man, after exhausting all his sales pitches, left him to the rest of the wolves in the plaza.

Soon, the wolves found other more interesting and contemporary exhibitions over which to salivate, but then the researchers with the QuickQuotes quills and clipboards and name tags came to replace them, officious little sycophantic students who thought that they could study him properly in a controlled environment. A Dark Lord in his unnatural habitat. Captured in Scotland. Non-venomous and declawed. He could tell the eager chicks from the aged ravens who watched him through the day, their persistent eyes jaded and movements less enthusiastic.

By now, Voldemort had learned to ignore the eyes – he looked at them instead, watched the comings and going in Diagon Alley and Gringotts, trained his ears to hear bits of conversations. It was mindless, thoughtless, and exercised little of his intelligent brain, but it was something to do. And he paced. He was beginning to see a slight trail in the carpet. His bed was never slept in, not since that first night. He felt useless, unchallenged. Before, his ambition extended to immortality, full mastery of magic, and reigning over the entire world. He had purpose.

Now he did not even have the _Daily Prophet_ to read.

In his visual exploration of Diagon Alley, he saw Order members and Aurors that came for supplies or to check on him from a distance. He never saw his archenemies, Dumbledore, Potter, or Hermione. Not once did his sharp eyes catch them – until Hermione was one of the students with a clipboard.

Unlike the usual students whose faces were open, fresh, and all too easy to read without the aid of Legilimency, Hermione surreptitiously looked at him from the furthest corner of his prison, near where the edges of the purple drapes stopped after they opened. She wore sunglasses and a light hooded cloak, but she did not seem out of place or overtly incognito. Simply covered. He noticed her not because of her attire, but because while energy crackled about the other observers, the area around her was serene, unhurried, unconcerned. She shifted when he saw her, but composed herself.

He could see her eyes behind the dark frames, and while he sensed guilt, she did not avoid his gaze, and she took few notes. He suspected that she was not here to observe him so much as watch him.

On the second day she came, he deviated from his usual pacing pattern, opened his trousers – causing no small amount of concern among the observers – and urinated on her face.

She jerked back when the stream hit her cheek, and the rest splattered on her cloak. The goblin guard signaled someone out of sight, and a human guard burst into the prison, the first person who had stepped into his prison since Dumbledore left. Before the guard bound him and bruised his left cheek, Voldemort saw two men and a woman help Hermione to her feet and lead her away, presumably to clean her up and calm her down if she needed to lapse into a hysteria. He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. Although the bruise ached that night, he slept better knowing that she would never return.

She did not come back the next day, but she did come back the day after. The observers were slowly decreasing in number – deadlines must be met – but she reestablished her post on the one end of his prison. Voldemort and Hermione locked gazes. Hermione was the first to look away, but he knew it was not from defeat. She beckoned to the goblin guard, whispered something in his large ear that even Voldemort could not hear, and handed the goblin a package. The goblin gave her a suspicious glare, but he called to another guard, one of the human guards who Voldemort could not see. The package was passed to him.

Hermione turned back to Voldemort, nodded her head in a slight bow, and left the plaza.

Later that evening, after the curtain had closed and the guard brought dinner into the prison, he gave Voldemort the package. Voldemort unfolded the thin parchment to reveal a book. He sneered and did not thank the guard as he left the prison.

Voldemort sat on his bed and opened to the title page. There, in neat, precise handwriting, was a note from her: _I know it isn't much, but the story is entertaining and engaging and it will give you something with which to occupy your time. I noticed that you didn't have a library. I cannot give you anything magical, of course, but I will not give you something myopic, droning, or mindless. This is a good book, and I think you will enjoy it._ There was a pause in the writing, and she moved to another line. _I do not suppose you will ever forgive me. I do not expect you to. But know that I want to help you as best as I can in your singular situation. I won't patronize you, and I won't treat you like everyone else treats you. I respect you._ The note concluded: _I really hope you enjoy this book. It's one of my favorite pieces of fiction. Sincerely, Hermione Granger_.

Voldemort was shaking with fury by the end of the note, and he nearly pushed the curtains back to throw it from his prison to the flags of the plaza. Instead, he set the book aside on the night table. He would start to read it tomorrow, slowly, to draw the novel through the eternity that he was going to spend in his bloody cage. He would take advantage of the gift that Hermione gave him.

But a book does not a peace offering make. He did not forgive her.

She always came back, every day. She did not inquire about the book, or about the other books she slipped to the human guard now that the goblin guard recognized her. The books were always checked, but they were always given to him on his occasional dinner platter. He read them at his leisure, usually pacing during the day and reading in the evening. He ignored her for the most part. He turned his attention to the last few observers, watching as they tripped over themselves to write notes or dictate to their quills. Hermione never seemed harried or frantic. She just resumed her place by his prison every morning and waited until the curtain closed in the evening.

One day, all the observers were gone. Hermione did not come that morning. Instead, she came that evening through the door with his dinner.


	4. Part IV

Voldemort did not approach her or react, simply watched her with his eyes, his mouth in a thin line. Her tread was solid, but she looked like a little girl when she pulled back the hood of her cloak and avoided his gaze. The door shut behind her, presumably by one of the guards.

"I gave them my wand," she murmured.

_Vulnerable_. She was telling him that she was shut in the prison with him and completely at his mercy. He still did not move from his bed where he held a book in his hands.

"I know I've given you no reason to like me…"

Voldemort's legs slid over the sheets of the bed so that his feet were planted on the floor. The sudden movement made her wary, but it also seemed to steady her resolve, and her chin lifted so that she was looking at him. Voldemort stood, both of them aware of the fact that he was still taller than she was. And somehow, the loss of the serpentine side of him only increased the intensity of malice radiating from him.

"Some things are unforgivable," he said slowly, "even more than those curses. I hope no one else knows the method of the removal. Pray that they never do."

"They won't," Hermione said. "I don't remember it. Only Harry does, and he's… well, he's not going to tell. The rest of us have been hit with new, powerful memory spells. I don't remember how they work. I hate not knowing things I helped create, but I do know that not remembering is better. Even Dumbledore doesn't remember."

Voldemort set the book on the night table.

"I ought to strangle you for what you've done to me," he murmured.

"And you could," Hermione replied quietly. "I couldn't really stop you, not if you put your weight into it. You can keep me from screaming or from making any other sound. You could probably chop me up into little bits and no one would notice until the blood started dripping into the plaza. But that would mean Azkaban or a Dementor's Kiss. You'd get your wish. You wouldn't die. But you wouldn't be living."

"You call this living?" Voldemort snapped, taking a step toward her. He only knew that she flinched because her cloak waved as though in a draft. She covered her discomposure well. "I was born with more magic than any witch or wizard could dream of mastering. I was given a great gift, Hermione, a gift I think you understand, if I recall your dossier correctly."

He was coming closer. Her hands twitched, as though she wanted to reach for a wand or stop him, but she restrained herself.

"And somehow," he continued, "you believed you could take that gift away as though it was yours to take. This is not living, Hermione. This is waiting to grow old and die. Because I am dying. You cannot imagine what it was like for me when magic hummed in a focused flow, and then have it ripped from me. You cannot imagine what it was like to be immortal, if not invincible, and then feel your mortality. Even now my body decays. I may look young, but every second that passes causes me pain. And apparently, by your own admission, that is your fault."

"I know," Hermione said. "I may not understand, but I know. In my defense, you _were_ trying to take over the world and kill and torture everyone I know… and me. I fought back the only way I could. You know how badly I feel, otherwise you wouldn't be pushing those buttons. Yes, I realize what you're doing.

"I didn't want you here," she continued. "None of us, at least most of us, in the Order wanted you in this prison… this animal cage. We knew the wizarding community would be out for blood, and there would be no way to deny them. What we didn't know was that they wanted to drain you dry. And…" she murmured, looking at the drawn purple curtain, "who can blame them?"

Voldemort turned away, impatient and bored with her predictable speech.

"Voldemort," she said, reaching out a hand to grasp his arm. She let go as soon as her hand closed around him as he whipped around in response. "This isn't why I came here. In fact, I would never have come near your prison at all if it hadn't been for that assignment. I thought that you would want to know about it. And in person."

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself in an armchair, draping himself into its shape as though it was his throne. Voldemort noticed the way she looked at him, like he was his old self for that one moment. He felt the ghost of scales and robes and cold stone. Then all he felt was the awful, comfortable cushion of the armchair, the rough chafing of less fine material against his legs, the strange yet now familiar weight of his body.

"Well then, if you're finished staring at me like the people on the other side of the bars…"

Hermione blinked and nodded. "Sorry." Her hands swung behind her back, and she became the school girl again, the one chastised for something simple like daydreaming in class or the like. Voldemort found the submission posture oddly endearing despite his irritation and still simmering hatred.

Hermione remained standing, knowing better than to sit without the former Dark Lord's permission. She began, "All these people have been coming here and taking notes because, as can be expected, not only are they out for blood, but they are out for titillation, information, dirt, basic observation of some animal. They all want to know. So there was a general request to the wizarding community to write an article explaining the enigma that is you. Of course, they never bothered to seek out that problem when you were at your full power. You're just turning into a media sideshow, like Harry, and that's… well, I hate it and make it perfectly clear that I hate it.

"So I decided to give them the true Dark Lord… _you_, not some idea or suddenly acceptable name. Not the titillation but… well… _everything_."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "And pray tell, Hermione, how do you presume to know me?"

"I didn't," Hermione replied. "I asked. I didn't just read the newspapers and the books. I asked everyone. Anyone. I've been asking people about you since fifth year. I never told Harry. I knew it would bother him, especially since he was so intent on forgetting you when he could. But Professor Dumbledore encouraged me to interview as many people as I could. He really wanted someone to know you who could do so objectively."

"_Objectively_?" Voldemort said, sneering. "I'm trying to kill your best friend and people like you."

Hermione smiled. "And yet, here I am. You haven't killed Harry yet. And the final battle was the first time I ever saw your face, unless you count the old pictures of you in the paper and when you were Tom Riddle. But that's different. An entire wall of my flat is devoted to my notes. Severus made some snide remarks when I invited him to dinner and an interview."

"I would have loved to be there for that," Voldemort murmured, leaning back. "Severus was always… interesting to try and read. Did you get anything out of him?"

"No one else thought to ask him about you. I think he was flattered. And he was most helpful. For all that he disliked me, he had worked closely with me on the spell and preferred for me to know rather than any of those… those vultures." Hermione bowed her head. "It's almost sad and disillusioning that he gave the information to a Gryffindor albeit one that he had grown used to for the last year." She looked up at him. "May I sit down?"

Voldemort eyed her. "Not on a chair."

Hermione turned her gaze to the bed, but she decided not to stretch her luck. Gingerly, she crossed her legs and leaned on the wall rather than sit on the floor, then resumed her story.

"After an advertisement came out in the _Prophet_ for tabloid trash disguised as a full academic article, Dumbledore came to me. He's one of the judges who will be selecting the accepted article, and he wanted to help solicit something that wasn't bent. I don't know if mine _will_ be selected, but I know that even if it isn't, I have several publishing opportunities – it's a large enough article that it could be a book. After all, it begins before you were born."

"How could you acquire that sort of information?" Voldemort said, sneering.

"You'd be surprised how many Muggles are forthcoming about the Riddle brat. It wasn't too hard to track down your peers and superiors at the orphanage or talk to some of your teachers… even the portrait of Headmaster Dippet gave me some telling information. It'll be the definitive work on the Dark Lord, you'll see."

Voldemort hissed, standing and towering above her. "Little hypocrite. 'The Dark Lord'? I am a diversion to you; I'm still the animal in a cage." He advanced upon her. She tried to push herself upright, but he caught her against the wall. "_I_ am the Dark Lord. Not the former Dark Lord. Not the Dark Lord of the past. Not a Muggle, never. Not as long as my memories remain intact."

He reached down, pressed his hands around her neck. "I ought to squeeze, Hermione, squeeze until you beg, until you remember the Dark Lord again. I'm not contained in some book, mere words, mere history. I'm _here_."

"I can help you," she gasped, clawing at his hands. "I can help you get out."

He released the pressure, but only enough to let her stop struggling. "Talk."

"It will have to start slow," she said between breaths. "You will have to be connected to me somehow… charmed binding or something. But I have a good rapport with the guards, and they trust me. They'd let me take you through Diagon Alley. You could do something besides pace. And if you could be trusted through Diagon Alley, maybe I could take you to Hogsmeade, Muggle London, Hogwarts, to my flat, or someone else's, as long as you're connected. Eventually, they'll forget about you, even if the media keeps a few tabs on your whereabouts for a while. You'll eventually not need the chain to walk freely. Then… I don't know. You may be a Dark Lord, but you'll never be a Dark Lord who people fear again. You could do something in Potions. You don't have to work for the Ministry like they ironically wanted you to do after your interim here, but you'll have to support yourself somehow."

Voldemort backed away. "If I did this… what is in the deal for you?"

"Nothing," Hermione said softly. "I just… I guess I want your company... I wouldn't mind knowing you as more than words on a page or as a name no one speaks."

"You'll get nothing from me, Hermione," Voldemort said, almost laughing. "You want to get to know the Dark Lord? How pathetically Gryffindor."

"Don't forget I'm freeing you. You owe me a little. Just an open mind and a few open words," Hermione said, starting toward the door.

"I'll not hesitate to curse your name, Hermione Granger."

Standing outside of the cage made more difference than he would have expected. The emptiness around him made him less aware of the emptiness within him. The chains were heavy around his wrists – the guards wanted to _show_ the people of Diagon Alley that he was well subdued. The charm allowed Hermione's physical strength to exceed his as she pulled him along. Some wizards and witches skirted around him, and Hermione threatened to curse a group of reporters who had heard the Voldemort had been released. Voldemort could not have put it better, and he looked at Hermione in a wry sort of appreciation as she led him into Flourish and Blotts.

The clerk looked up and saw Voldemort walking in with chains binding his hands, and he immediately said, "We're not going to serve him here."

Voldemort knew to look at Hermione just to see her bristle. "You'll serve him as you have served him for the last few months with the books I've bought him through your Muggle branch. If you choose not to serve him, you'll lose me, and I'm as good a customer as fifteen of your regulars. Now, would you like to concede the point, or are you going to throw out a completely harmless man?"

Now Voldemort bristled. Although he knew it was necessary for her to point it out to every proprietor, manager, and clerk, it did not mean he had to feel and look contrite.

"Okay, miss," the clerk said. "But if he…"

"I'll take full responsibility. He is, after all, chained to me. Odds are I did it anyway," Hermione said briskly.

Hermione led him to one of the farther sections of the library and let him look as she browsed on the other side of the aisle. He closed his eyes, taking in the scent of leather bindings and parchment. Never had he thought he would miss it – it had surrounded him back at his fortress. There had been a touch of it in the scent of his robes. But his cage was so stark and new. This was history; this was power. The heady smell seemed to overwhelm him, but when he heard Hermione move to touch him, he shook himself from the quiet pleasure and hardened the planes of his face again.

She bought three books for himself and two for him before leading him to Fortescue's. His human face could not conceal a blush as his transfigured face had, and he had to endure several minutes of family patrons staring at him with their mouths slightly open as Hermione talked to Fortescue himself, who let them eat their ice cream in the back room where Voldemort did not have to be ogled at. Hermione had to feed him – his chains did not allow for a great deal of movement and freedom – but she managed to keep up a fairly light conversation about one of the books she had given him.

He did not want to admit him within the oppressive push of the cage as he lay on top of the covers that night, but the excursion had been… passable.


	5. Part V

She took him out of the prison almost every afternoon with few exceptions. He was met with apprehension as the regulars began to recognize him more fully outside of his usual environment and as they contemplated what Voldemort might do, even if they _knew_ that he couldn't do anything.

Hermione was surprisingly protective of him. There was not a better person to sporadically liberate him. She knew the one whom she led around in chains – thinner, less ostentatious, more manageable than the set he had to wear the first few weeks – but there was a defensive streak in her. He felt like it would be more patronizing if she did not show time and again how much she still respected him. She never let him out of her sight, kept him judiciously from anything that he could use, and she felt he was not ready to leave Diagon Alley, even though it interfered with some of her errands. She never underestimated him – he was fading from the wizarding world's mind as neutered and something less than their usual petty worries. He was surprised how relieved he was.

Interest was piqued when the article in the _Daily Prophet_ came out with "unrestrained," "uncensored" "full details" of the "notorious former Dark Lord." He could see from the sparkle in Hermione's eyes and the garish headlines that her thesis on him had not been chosen by the panel. He stayed in the prison for a full thirty minutes reading the article, laughing outright at some places if only for the benefit of the onlookers who wanted to see his reaction. Hermione seemed genuinely delighted that he had found amusement in something other than cruel derision, which had comprised a majority of his entertainment. Falls, wayward hexes, and capricious magical debris – that was his only pleasure, other than the times when Hermione took him to Flourish and Blotts for something new. He sometimes tried to take a magical book, but she caught him every time. The attempts quickly became half-hearted because he knew they would be confiscated. But at least he could feel it around him; at least he could pretend that he could breathe it into his blood.

That was where Severus found them, digging through leather-bound tomes and cheap Muggle hardbacks simultaneously where they were usually undisturbed. Voldemort looked at the sweeping form of his traitorous servant and sneered – Severus was taller than he was, more imposing. That was not how things used to be. Voldemort used to love the way that Severus's power seemed to crackle, both raw and restrained, but that was when his own felt its superiority. Severus merely spared him a glance as he addressed Hermione in her ear. Voldemort watched her face light up and felt an irrational stab of jealousy – not any sort that he would be ashamed of because he was just as jealous that Hermione was speaking to Severus. Severus was his, Hermione was his – they had their places. It stirred something odd to see them together. He remembered that they had developed the spell that Harry used, and he hated them as much as he could not keep his eyes from them.

There was a rustle; Hermione stood from where she had reclined against the shelves.

"Some place to go," she said excitedly. "You'll like this, I think. It was what I was hoping for."

"They're letting me go," Voldemort said. The words were hollow, and he bit his tongue against petulance.

"After two months? Unlikely," Hermione replied, holding his upper arm to help him up. "But this… this is good for you nonetheless. It's a step."

"Like the chains," Severus said, giving him a once-over and dwelling on the metal draping from Voldemort's wrists.

"It's better than nothing," Hermione said. "He can use his limbs to their fullest capacity, and they don't weigh his arms down. Eventually the Ministry will be content without physical chains – that's what I've been petitioning."

"Hello, Severus," Voldemort said. He stared steadily at the closed face of his servant. The Dark Mark should not have disappeared, for he had not died.

There was a moment, a moment of connection like Legilimency, but it could not be.

Severus nodded. "Lord Voldemort," he said before whirling around and exiting the shop.

Hermione looked from Severus's retreat to Voldemort watching where he had been with eyebrow raised, but she did not comment.

"Traitor," he muttered.

"He's everyone's traitor, I think. Even his own," Hermione said. "But he chose us in the end. I don't know why, but he did. He was difficult to work with. I guess you know that."

"You don't understand, Hermione. Don't try to." Voldemort's lips thinned as spells ribboned through his mind, charms and curses alike.

Hermione did not press the point, but she led him out of the shop. She did not keep such a tight hold on the chains anymore because the last time he broke free, she had chastised him like a child, slapped him like a Muggle, in front of the entire Alley. He had been shocked – when was the last time something like that, simple, directly, and embarrassing without being humiliating, ever happened to him? – and the people milling about the Alley applauded her. She took him back to the prison and left him there without completing the full five hours allotted to them. She did not like it when he did not appreciate her sacrifice, her own private humiliation, to challenge her in so puerile a manner, and he had learned to be mild. For a time. He had learned to be patient, and the tolerable times became enjoyable. The prospect of full freedom was his carrot, but aside from that one punishment, he never felt like an ass with her. Maybe because he knew that she was just as committed to his freedom – any freedom – as he was. Sometimes he would go to sleep with a sort of wonder. Was she so naïve or was she smarter than he gave her credit for? Either way, she was not forthcoming.

She showed her girlish side as she almost ran toward his prison. She was excited like she could be when she saw a member of the Order and began to talk to them, like Remus Lupin or Tonks or one of the older Weasleys. He never saw her with the one that was her age, like he never saw her with Harry, but he did not press the issue – it seemed to be where she was most sensitive, and he knew that she could leave him there and never come back if he pressed the emotional nerves he so desperately wanted to push.

Voldemort thought that she might show him whatever she was so eager about in his prison, as she had done before, but she led him past the door, past the guards, to a podium where a goblin looked down at them.

"Could I have Voldemort's key, please?" she asked breathlessly.

"Are you Hermione Granger?" the goblin asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I need to see your key for identification purposes."

"Of course." She dug into her bag and found the key on a ring of other keys. The goblin curled his lip at the sight of Muggle keys next to the wizarding ones, but he simply inspected the key that she indicated was from Gringotts.

"Very well," the goblin said grudgingly. He gestured to another goblin and muttered in Gobbledygook as though what he was saying was more important than telling the other to retrieve the key.

"Hermione, what is this?" Voldemort asked, annoyed.

"You have an account here, now," Hermione said. "I'll hold your key until you are released from the prison, but you have a small income from your percentage of the royalties – my study of you was purchased a week ago – right now, you've been given half of the advance, and you'll receive half of the royalties respectively. Dumbledore will endorse and publicize it – hopefully people will grab onto it in the wake of that ridiculous article."

"Hermione, I can't understand you when you talk so quickly, damn it," Voldemort said. "Calm down. What is this?"

Hermione blushed red, whether from embarrassment that he had caught her in what she called her "chipmunk" moments or whether she had become shy for her position. "Your biography," Hermione said. "The one you never gave me permission to write – I'd feel guilty if you didn't receive at least half of the gold, especially since you can't leech off of me forever. It was sold, even if the _Daily Prophet_ rejected it."

Voldemort was quiet as he digested the information – it was neither startling nor expected, and, as usual, he was caught between feeling deprecated and feeling venerated. She tried. The girl tried. He lowered his head and gave her the smile she wanted. It was only half false.

The book received marvelous praise from academic journals and independent papers, but Rita Skeeter wrote both a scathing review – "Since when does that ferreting old cow know anything about books!" Hermione fumed – and a scathing article on Hermione's illicit liaisons with the Dark Lord for whom she had written such a "glowing" biography. Anyone who frequented the Alley at least once a week, or even a month, had seen Hermione with Voldemort, seen her hex anyone trying to pursue some vendetta – even if it was deserved. Some put their shallow observations and the vindictive article together as evidence of Hermione's treachery. There were enough witches and wizards in the Alley who knew Hermione's intentions and behavior better to keep the others from attacking her directly, but she received more attention than Voldemort did on their excursions now.

Things never changed. They attacked her blood, her family, her appearance, her sexual appetites. Voldemort saw that they affected her far more than Hermione would show him. Although Houses inevitably meant less after graduation, she was a Gryffindor through and through. She had a core of innocence and goodness that could be cloying if Voldemort was in a mood, and she could fight vitriol with vitriol, but she could only do so much to keep her tears from swimming in her eyes.

When she came to his prison with the side of her mouth swollen, Voldemort stared.

"There are spells to hide that," he said finally.

Her hand flew to the place where she had been hit. "I thought I had… I must have thought it was y-… it's nothing." She went to the lavatory to peer into the mirror and cast a glamour.

"How long has this been going on?" Voldemort asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the prison door. He wanted her to talk.

"Since that stupid article, of course," Hermione snapped. "I don't want to talk about it."

He was pushing _those _buttons, the ones that would keep him from the Alley, but the regularity of them made staying in the prison for a few nights a little easier.

"Who uses fists these days?"

"People who are too cowardly to use their wands and who don't want their magic traced."

"But you have your wand," Voldemort said.

"They do the Apparating trick – hide, Apparate right in front of me…" Hermione's lip still looked and sounded a little puffy, but Voldemort thought she might be too distraught at letting her secret known.

"And you don't have anyone looking out for…?"

"No!" Hermione said. "I can't prove anything, and I'm not going to tell Dumbledore about this. I signed on for you, and a few bruises aren't going to stop that."

"But this sort of abuse is intolerable," Voldemort said. When he talked to Hermione, when he tried to pry information from her she was reluctant to give, he could not quite discern whether he was being manipulative or whether he was being sincere. He did not explore the ambiguities borne of his new form – he did not dare go down a path that he feared. "Surely Ron or Harry could escort you here and back – stalwart friends and the sort that would risk their necks for you." Yes, he was going to be left in the prison.

"Ron doesn't talk with me anymore, not since I requested permission from Dumbledore to help you out of the prison," Hermione said, looking at her feet. "He doesn't say betrayal, but I know he means it. And Harry… well, I suppose you must know eventually. No one knows where Harry is – they can't find him. The last owl I received, he was in Iceland. He wants far away from England, from you, from people who know him. He writes, but he isn't Harry anymore. That prophecy…"

She closed her mouth, catching herself in her candor.

"The part of the prophecy I didn't hear," Voldemort finished for her.

Hermione looked up, her eyes wide and transparent. "I should leave."

"I have no way of fulfilling that prophecy, Hermione," Voldemort said. "You might as well tell me its contents at last."

Hermione took her wand from her robes. She was allowed to carry one in the prison now. It pressed against Voldemort's throat. Silently, he stepped aside, and she slammed the door behind her.

"_He_ _will have power the Dark Lord knows not and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_," Hermione said from behind him. She had been unusually quiet, and he turned from the wardrobe, finishing the fastenings of his robes.

"Excuse me?"

"That's the part of the prophecy you missed."

"You waited two weeks to tell me," Voldemort said. It was not a question.

"I received another letter from Harry – he heard about my decision to be with you, first from the article, then from Dumbledore. There are places where his handwriting is different. It's not yours, not even close, but it's still different. He…" Hermione bent down and handed Voldemort his boots. He sat down on the edge of the bed to pull them on. "He's on my side. He wishes he had never done that spell. But…" Hermione preempted his retort, "we all knew that we would regret it. Still, w-w-with a b-bit of y-you in him, he has a little more s-s-sympathy. He had to leave because he didn't want to become you and hurt us."

Voldemort paused.

"The spell – I don't need to know the arithmancy and incantations to tell that Harry took your magic, but it didn't just go anywhere. It's in him now. And it changed him. That's why he's gone. Because he chose not to live so that he would not have to die – so that both of you wouldn't have to die."

"So he is protected by my immortality spells now?" Voldemort asked. "A young man of his disposition cannot…"

"Dumbledore and Bill helped remove them – with your knowledge of their origin in Harry's head, they were able to create a counterspell."

"But I still remember the charms," Voldemort said.

"Look, I don't understand everything. It's not in here anymore," she snapped, tapping her head. "I can only infer."

She fidgeted under Voldemort's scrutiny.

"What made you change you mind about telling me?" Voldemort asked.

"It's still volatile information in your hands," Hermione said. "I don't doubt that… but I… I wanted to tell you."

"Why?"

She could not answer him.

Eight days after she told him the prophecy, she kissed him.

Ten days after she told him the prophecy, he kissed her back.


	6. Part VI

She initiated the first kiss, of course. It showed the oddity of their relationship that her hand on his cheek and her lips on his were neither shocking nor expected. They were just there, foreign, gentle, strange; a rush of thoughts and reactions tumbled through his head, and he froze.

She took his slight in stride, told him good night without malice or annoyance, and left him with something like confusion. The curtains had not even closed, and Hermione had kissed him. It reminded him vaguely of the way Nagini could encircle his body with hers – closeness and intimacy without insinuation.

Two days later, he caught her by the shoulder as she was about to leave. He did not have to say anything – his uncharacteristic hesitation spoke for him. Her fingers curled in his hair – it felt nice when they pressed against his scalp – and she led him, as she always did, but instead of stiffening against the kiss, he explored the new feeling, this awakening of the human body he inhabited.

The kiss was quick, nothing that Bellatrix or Narcissa would think anything of, but it hummed through his skin with novelty. He almost hated such a strong reaction to such a mundane and pointless thing like sexual attraction. He had once been above that, beyond it – he made a point to shed sexuality from himself the moment his ambition was in sight. Voldemort did not understand why he let Hermione coax it from him. He told himself it was simply a means to a goal – seduce the girl and win his freedom. But _he_ sought the kiss, and he knew that the old excuse was tenuous at best when it came to them. When it was just Hermione, he knew where he was going – she had the chains and he had the lead. But with them, the chains did not matter, and she led.

He withdrew, let her drag him around the Alley, but he did not talk to her until she told him that he was allowed to leave, and the chains could be removed. He was still bound to her by a spell when they left Diagon Alley. His arms were light, and his eyes darted from dirty building to dirty building, but it wasn't the prison or the Alley that he had memorized to the minutest detail. He did not feel glee or delight, but joy. He had not felt the loss of his old body so keenly as when he realized what it meant to be completely human.

It was only a matter of time – five months later – before the Ministry finally released him for a probationary period, as long as he stayed with either Hermione, who had proven herself adequate according to the Ministry (with a few strings pulled within), Dumbledore, or Ministry Aurors. There was the expected controversy, but it did not have the same impact or intensity – most of the wizarding community in Great Britain had read Hermione's biography of the Dark Lord, and she was now a regular face for the wizarding world when they needed someone who wasn't running away from them. She was given no apologies for the beatings that she suffered before, but they did not continue.

Hermione brought him to her flat to stay, and he started in the living room, sleeping on the futon, learning about the Muggle gadgets around which Hermione was comfortable, and finding his own comfort in the magical objects she owned that he could use in spite of his state.

Hermione was conscious of his growing self-consciousness – they only kissed lightly, and never in the flat. Then she let him kiss her against her front door, and Voldemort felt the first twinge of contentment.

Four months found Crookshanks back in his usual corner on the futon and Voldemort in her bedroom. Neither of them loved each other, but that was not the point. Hermione liked being around him, liked knowing him, and Voldemort was less sensitive about discussing magical theory with her. He was officially free of probation, and Hermione took him to the cinema – which he enjoyed now and then – to celebrate. Then never talked about Harry, although Voldemort noticed that the letters had stopped.

It was just them. Hermione sometimes left him to his own devices – his money and the Tube – when she went to see some Order members, but she was increasingly disconnected from them. The threat of the Dark Lord had passed, and their lives settled back into their places, waiting serenely for the next threat – the children grew up and were replaced with new ones, some people got together, and others did not. Hermione never told him whether they condemned her company, but he thought that they didn't, and if some did, she did not care. He never met any of his old servants – if he did, he imagined he would be dead – not even Severus. Although he wandered, he never strayed – his path always led him back to Hermione and the passion she shared with him, passion that he had only ever reserved for advancement and politics.

She was what he needed for the transition from the towering figure of a Dark Lord to nothing but a simply Muggle, he would not deny that. But that was all it was, a transition.

Voldemort woke up as the sun peered sleepy and gray through the curtains. The bed was a single, but neither of them kicked in their sleep, and Hermione never saw the need to buy a bigger bed for them. She slept against him, but she did not hold him – her hands where tight against her chest, hands in fists, and her legs were straight against his thigh. She held herself in so tightly when she slept, Voldemort thought, amused. He touched her cheek, the curve of her shoulder and breast, as he had done many times before.

But he never was awake at this time of the morning, so what woke him up now?

That was when he felt it – the contentment had faded.

Voldemort stirred within his head, the real Voldemort, not this shadow of him. He remained dormant during the time it took for Hermione to integrate him into this new body, but he did not need Hermione for that. He did not need her anymore.

His hand paused on the swell of her hip.

She stirred, and he remembered the night before. She held him so tightly; they had fucked late into the night with desperation that matched their second try at sex. Almost as though she knew her Voldemort would slip away in the night. The sex was wonderful with her, but the memory was hollow as though the last year or so dripped into a discolored blur of gray watercolor. All he could see was the shadow, looking over a world he desired, familiar, heady, and powerful.

_I can't_, he thought. _I don't have my magic anymore. I can't ever be that again, even if I wanted to. You're gone – the Dark Lord cannot be me. _

_Harry has it_, Voldemort whispered. _Harry has your magic. And if he can't give it to you, are you just going to be that girl's toy for the rest of your worthless life?_

Voldemort shifted restlessly, turning away from Hermione and looking at the wall. Hermione did not keep him as a toy – they were both conveniences. She was no more beneath him than he was beneath her. It was her choice to give herself to him, and if he could love, he thought he might have for that. But that, too, was hollow, just words. There was pleasure with her, sexual, social, physical, every kind of pleasure. There was freedom – even in her sleep she did not hold him. And he could leave whenever he wanted, needed.

When he was young, he traveled the world – his body was manageable still, and his wanderlust remained, kindling his old ambition.

"Voldemort, why are you still here with me?" Hermione had asked after they came home from a Greek restaurant that Hermione had wanted to try.

"Because I don't want to leave yet," he had answered. It was not the response that she looked for, but it was one she accepted – maybe she thought he was not ready to leave rather than not wanting to leave. That was when the restlessness began, the need to wander through the city with Muggle money in his hand, unable to blend in with the crowd. Even when he looked, acted, dressed, and felt like a Muggle, he could never been one.

_He_ _will have power the Dark Lord knows not and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._

_Iceland_, he thought. _Canada. But maybe not. Perhaps Romania again, or all the way to Russia._

_For neither can live while the other survives._

The words resonated with Parseltongue and venom as his thoughts dwelled less and less on Hermione and more on leaving. He thought that Hermione – pretty, lovely, practical, useful girl – would understand, that she would see his manipulations and his gratitude in the same verisimilitude that led her to him in the first place. She was there, her warmth burning into his back, but Voldemort smiled grimly and felt the first icy touch of his journey. His return.

_I will be the Dark Lord again._

He turned back to Hermione, kissed her mouth as lightly as the way she first kissed him.

He left no note, nothing but the empty spaces where he had been, the hollowness of the dresser drawers and closet and the few magical knickknacks missing. She cried, but she was not hurt, not as much as she thought she would be. She wished she had extinguished that lust that she could never touch, wished that she could have filled the hollow scar left from the spell. She had a feeling that Voldemort was back in a way that he had not been before, but the fear that should have twisted her stomach was not there. So when her mind turned to Harry, Ron, Remus, Severus, reflections of fading memories, she did not worry for them.

In the end, Hermione could only wish she would see him again and wish him well.


End file.
